


dunamis

by ToasTea



Series: with the stars and us [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Diabetus - Freeform, F/M, Fluff and Humor, post-8x03, puns, puns everywhere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-11-24 06:06:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20902862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToasTea/pseuds/ToasTea
Summary: The unspoken affections between a queen and her knight do not go unnoticed.





	1. LannisterTyrion[1]:Wine

**Author's Note:**

> My first multi-chapter thingamabob. Short, but still a multi-chapter thingamabob.
> 
> Placed in-between "paradox" and "pragma." Tyrion and Missandei double-teaming Jorah with #itisknown. Topped with a dash of Dany at the end. Starting with Tyrion. Totally not an excuse for me to use these AMAZING jokes I found on the internet or anything.
> 
> Not really necessary to read either pieces ('cause they're both long as shit holy moly i'm cray), but recommended. I tried writing this as a standalone but it was difficult. Hopefully stuff makes sense lol.

Brooding northerners were a tough crowd. Understandably so, he supposed.

Seldom did the sun ever grace them with its warmth. 

Climate deprived them of many luxuries. But like a blade nursed by a whetstone, winter’s bite honed the northmen’s vigor and appreciation for simplicities taken for granted much too often by foreigners.

The roofs over their heads, the fire in their hearths, the kinship built upon mutual hardship and poverty. Survival took precedence above all, leaving little to no room for anything but.

Including a personality. 

“Alright, this one then. When do soldier’s sleep?”

Jorah Mormont for example, had the strength of ten mainlanders but the charm of five dead grandmothers.

With his blue eyes fixated on the book before him. Most likely scanning the same line over and over again thanks to Tyrion’s persistence. Pretending to ignore good entertainment when it was presented to him free of charge.

“At _knight_ time,” Tyrion finished with a wide grin, shifting in his seat while underlining the grandeur of his brilliance with a forward tip of his goblet.

Silence. 

Not long, but sullen nonetheless, accompanied by an unyielding side glance with the occasional crack of embers from the hearth.

If looks could curl into a fist, the only punchline Mormont was most likely interested in was one that led to the dwarf’s face.

Ah, the classic Mormont. 

Tyrion was truly grateful the knight was spared from the long night’s grasp. He was warming up to the man’s cold glares and glowering tendencies. 

So much in fact, that he took another bold gulp of wine. Gazing intently at the bedridden man as the bitter sweetness warmed his belly, searching for even the smallest lip movement or change in breathing. 

Jorah Mormont cracking a smile. Laughing, even. 

It would be one for the books. A dent in history created by the little lion. Though, a small part of him knew the main culprit behind his quest was the wine.

Putting a smile on Mormont’s face however, was a battle that shamed the fight against the dead.

“Okay,” Tyrion resigned. “Admittedly, not my best one.”

“The last four weren’t your best ones either,” Jorah grumbled, his eyes drifting back to the pages.

“Ah, but like a wise man once said. A true entertainer never reveals his full hand at the start.”

“That wise man being you?”

“You know me so well." He held a hand to his heart. “This is why we’re friends, Mormont.”

“I’m not your friend,” Jorah deflected, his indifference indicating a degree of tolerance rather than malice.

“We are friends as much as we are traveling companions, my _friend._”

A grunt was the knight’s only response before silence took the reigns again. 

Tyrion eyed the man keenly, swishing the contents of his drink gently as he contemplated his next weapon of choice. The subtle intoxication would not allow him to yield just yet.

“So,” he began after a few breaths, “there was a young boy who lived with his mother but has never met his father. One day, he asked his mother: ‘Mum, was father by any chance struck by some illness that caused a lump on his back?’”

“The mother asked: ‘why do you say that?’ To which the son replied: ‘Oh, I just had a _hunch.’_”

He’s wheezing. 

Not Mormont. 

Still silent and sullen as ever, classically ignoring what was right in front of him. 

Tyrion’s laughter filled the room, lifting the dour mood around them as he steadied himself from doubling over against the wooden table. His lack of breath temporarily depriving him of another sip of wine. 

“Oh...Seven Hells,” he says in between breaths, a finger wiping a tear from his eyelid. “That’s one of my favorites to this day still.”

“...Ah.” 

“‘Ah?’” he repeated, aghast.

“Yes. I understand the joke,” Jorah said, much too matter-of-fact for the dwarf’s taste. No upward quirk of the lips. Not a single hint of laughter threatening to burst from his bandaged chest. Not even a glance spared.

Broody and stone-cold, ever so the charismatic contrast to the warmth in his chambers.

“The point of a joke is to laugh if you understand it.”

“The recipient is the judge of that.”

“For fuck’s sake Mormont,” he breathed with a shake of his head, “I bet even the Night King has a better sense of a humor than you.” Tyrion finished with another large sip of wine, brows furrowing as the bitterness enriched his throat when he swallowed, dulling his senses further. He reached for the pitcher on the table afterwards, refilling his goblet to the brim. 

Jorah sighed, finally snapping the book in his hands closed. “You are the queen’s Hand, yet you are here. You should be by her side and counseling her, not dulling your mind senseless with drink.”

"Yes. I'm helping her by lending you a helping _hand_ while you're still on the mend."

"The only hand you'll be lending is one to the Craftsman as a cast for your golden replacement if you don't shut up."

"I'm a Valyrian steel type of man, thank you," he corrected.

Tyrion indulged in another strong gulp as the man before him narrowed his eyes in mild annoyance.

“Oh come now, Mormont. We’re all riding out the high of victory while it’s still aloft. Including the queen-”

“It’s been a week-”

“Plus,” Tyrion continued, the alcohol tightening its grip on his tongue, “you still haven’t fully recovered so I’m helping you as your friend. They say laughter is one of the best medicines in all of the realms, a plus if you have great company.” 

Jorah rolled his eyes, but Tyrion would not yield today.

“Here,” Tyrion beckoned by inching the untouched goblet closer to the knight, “do us all a favor and drink this. Let me know when you start feeling the personality sink in and I’ll tell you another good one.”

A hand raised to refuse his offer. As stubborn and resilient as his house words. 

Not even so much as a flinch to any of the backhand jests Tyrion threw his way the entire duration.

He could feel the frustration simmering in his belly from the drink taking hold of him. Lacing his tongue with a bravery that first manifested on his wedding night with Sansa Stark.

A heavy breath left his nostrils as he glanced down at his own blurry reflection rippling in his cup. 

“Gods, sometimes I wonder what it is the queen sees in you sulky northerners,” he mumbled.

“What?”

The levity surrounding them vanished faster than the mistress who mounted him last night.

Was that a mistake? Probably. 

Regret would come later, perhaps. But what truly worried his interest was that he finally got Mormont’s bloody attention.

He didn’t miss the knight’s sharp intonation, the fists crinkling the furs over his body, his posture straightening as best it could with his bindings.

“What?” Tyrion mirrored as he lifted his head to meet a rather flustered Mormont. A genuine question that could easily be misconstrued as mockery given his intoxication. 

“Oh, did you not notice? I mean first it was Jon Snow and then you. Or maybe…” 

He scratched his chin, messily piecing intoxicated thoughts together in contemplation. Missing the way Jorah’s nostrils flared as he inhaled sharply. 

“Now that I think about it, maybe it was always you. I digress, though,” he finished, tipping his cup to take another sip.

But Jorah beat him to it and swiftly grabbed the goblet from the dwarf’s hand with a strength that would have sobered up any other man. Remnants of drink sloshing over the rim and spilling onto the table from the sudden movement. 

“You’ve had _enough_,” Jorah growled, setting the drink down with more force than necessary. 

Tyrion gestured to take a sip, but his drunken mind was a touch late registering the fact that his cup was no longer in his hand. 

“I was drinking that, you know.”

“You will speak of the queen with respect, drunk or not.”

“...What?”

It clicked. 

“Oh…”

By the grace of the Seven, it clicked despite his drunken state. Confusion crossed the flustered man’s features at his unspoken thoughts.

Mormont was in denial. Of course he was. 

He would take everything thrown against him without hesitation. Every blade, every bit of poison-laced word. 

But his queen? The woman he’s been in love with for years? Loving someone like him.

No, he would never stand for that. The entire notion offended him of all people.

A sore spot. _Especially_ his feelings for the queen.

A fool in love. A fool who speaks with his mistakes rather than his feats. A fool who wholeheartedly believes he doesn’t deserve the queen’s rather obvious affections.

Perhaps Tyrion was a fool as well. A little lion prancing dangerously around a bear and his mate.

Oh well. The wine will take care of it. 

It always did. No matter how temporary the solution.

“Oh, you don’t believe me, do you? Wait, no. Why would you? With Daario Naharis and Jon Snow, I would be shocked if you still had an ounce of hope left in you…”

“Enough with your riddles,” Jorah spewed through clenched teeth. “If you have something to say, then speak clearly.”

“Straight to the point, like any other Mormont,” Tyrion slurred, lazily reaching for his goblet.

Jorah didn’t fight him this time, letting him take another large sip, the warm liquid drowning his mind deeper into intoxication. 

Tyrion was drunk, and to a degree, an idiot for treading dangerous waters with no one around to save him. 

But he could still play the game of perceptions, for he did not miss the curiosity hiding within the flustered depths of the knight’s blue hues. 

Was that...hurt too?

Ah, no matter.

He can tell regardless. 

The desire to know practically radiated from his blue depths. Despite the denial and self-deprecation trying to save him from a seemingly false illusion, anger shielding him at the front. To quench that longing ounce of hope that laid dormant within his tender heart. That small part of him still clawing for a sign of confirmation.

All this wine and yet the image of them was clear as day. 

Two fools who were absolutely terrible at hiding what they truly felt for each other, a fissure forged by duty and status wedged between them. Emotions that leaked from the windows to their souls that even a blind fool could behold.

The tears threatening her regal facade when he told her Jorah Mormont was in love with her. The intensity of his gaze as he shouted the valyrian oath to her in the pits. 

How she wept over his seemingly still body as the maesters carried him away after the battle. Her disheveled form remaining vigilant by his bedside as he fought against unconsciousness. Her sharp and short outbursts at council meetings, manifested from a lingering grief.

The way she festered over him more so than before. The daily visits. Stolen smiles when Tyrion fetched her for meetings, duty reaping her from her bear's side.

Seven Hells, he could never forget genuine love. No matter how far time progressed. No matter how many bottles of wine his body absorbed. 

Love broke him. Love betrayed him. It left a wound in his heart that was cauterized by revenge and time. 

Queen Daenerys and Jorah Mormont shared a festering love that was good for tales to come but too good for the realms to embrace. This...he was no fool to.

Though, watching them dance around each other like some fucked mating ritual was wildfire for his eyeballs.

“She’s fucking in love with you, Mormont,” he slurred, another long sip accompanying his words. Two in fact, just for the hell of it. Three because, well, to _love._

Only silence answered, impregnated by a truth spoken by a drunken dwarf no less. But it made its impact, outlined by the sharp intake of breath that his words elicited. 

The world tilting, the wine warmer than he remembered, and to top it all off, he's seeing two Mormonts. Gods, help him. 

Was the other one his self-deprecating twin?

Jorah tore his gaze from the dwarf. Lips parted, but words were muted by perhaps a rush of conflict. His knuckles, pale from the bundle of furs at his fists. 

Is that the sound of wheels turning in Mormont’s head as he’s trying to process a simple piece of information?

Tyrion giggled to himself at the thought and sight, earning a stern frown blending with the emotional turmoil in the man’s eyes. 

_Ha._

Wheels. Turning. Break the wheel.

“Calm down, Mormont. It's just another spoke on the wheel she'll break.”

Because Daenerys Stormborn said she would break the centuries of tradition once she seizes the Seven Kingdoms.

An image of the realms being ruled under genuine love. 

No political foundation. No adultery. Nothing incestuous. No obligation. Just pure. Raw love.

Believable and laughable simultaneously. Doable? That remains to be seen.

The drink only served to enhance his courageous mood, poisoning the deafening silence with soft giggles and hiccups. 

“...You’re drunk,” Jorah stated breaths later. Tyrion could hear the conflict in his voice ringing through his ears, the fight in him wavering. 

“Well, you’re observant aren’t you? Might want to utilize your keen observation elsewhere.”

_”Leave,”_ Jorah gritted.

“Shouldn’t you be happy-Oh wait.” He paused, his lips curving into a lopsided smile at the blurry image of the man’s second half. “I know. Don’t tell me. Your self-hatred is saying no.”

“I said le-”

“Leave! Yes!" Gods, Jorah was so loud for a person who reveled in silence. "I know, Mormont! Stop...fucking yelling, I can hear you.”

But the dwarf made no move to leave. Grasping the edge of the table as he felt himself sway too much to the right.

“Oh woe is me,” he sang before taking another sloppy swish of drink. “I sold a few slaves and now I don’t deserve any love. My mistakes are who I am. Not even if the queen has feelings for me, forgiven me, hurt for me, and looks at me like she wants to ride me into the next realm!”

As if he were graced by the gods, he heard another voice that was getting louder. Too loud, actually. A voice that saved him from the potential swipe of a bear’s grief-stricken claws.

Varys? Was that him? His best friend? A much more entertaining friend than Mormont, that he knew for sure. At least Tyrion could elicit a chuckle or two out of him with his best jokes.

He moved to take another sip, but he felt the blurring image of his bald eunuch friend remove it from his grasp. His mouth was moving, but words rippled through his clouded mind like the wine left abandoned on the table.

Something along the lines of…”there you are,” apologetic mumbles to Ser Jorah, a meeting of some sort. A queen? His queen?

“Truth hurts because you’re letting it hurt you,” he slurred forward, not registering the arms hoisting him from his seat but not fighting them either. “You fool. You’re the joke.”

Blotches of black welcomed itself into his vision as he felt a hand dragging him away, steps uneven and without grace. His body swaying with the unsolicited movement.

“Fool...too busy sleeping on your arse to see how she was before you awoke.”

His words definitely hit a sore spot, peeling the wound open and prodding it with nothing but the truth. But he would not see the look on Jorah Mormont’s face for darkness forged by wine beckoned to him like that whore last night. And Tyrion was much too willing to oblige. 

Mormont’s probably pissed.

Oh well.

His form eventually slipped into intoxicated unconsciousness, but rest would be kind to him after he planted a more than generous seed in his glowering friend’s mind.

Shame he won’t remember it.

Though, there was most likely a punch in the face awaiting him at the end of his drunken bliss that could help him remember.


	2. Missandei[2]:Reverence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> S O F T.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello beautiful people of the internet/Jorleesi fandom. I'm posting this a lot earlier than planned since my area will be affected by the NorCal power outage in the U.S of fracking A. Which means, you guessed it - no internet for moi for god knows how long. Splendid isn't it :'DD. Oh well. I'll finally be forced to finish other things I've been putting off for so long. In the meantime, have some squishy Missandei & Jorah friendship. Also, pls pray for me y'all as I live the next few days in nothing but darkness, nature, and a mild anxiety of my Nintendo Switch running out of juice. :'DD
> 
> As always, thank you to the stars and back for the lovely feedback. I value each and every kudo/comment/bookmark/whatever ao3 shindig you throw at my amateur booty cheeks. Much love and butter for all y'alls croissants. <3 :)

Word of Lord Tyrion’s...adventure with Ser Jorah reached their small council rather quickly. 

A trivial matter, luckily. One a vehement scolding from the queen couldn’t fix…

...and a well-deserved punch in the face from Ser Jorah, who had miraculously freed himself from rest. 

An action that instantly incited the dragon queen’s wrath. Not because of his gall to strike her Hand, but because his recovery was still evident in his limp.

Missandei was no stranger to the queen’s ferocity. _Dracarys_ was but a command that saved her people and tore their enemies asunder. A simple utterance that vastly contrasted the searing blaze that followed. Daenerys Stormborn, whose porcelain features were but a veneer for the dragon underneath, was dracarys embodied. 

Which was why her friend’s sudden reproach with Ser Jorah’s jostled condition had Missandei ducking her head. 

She ducked behind her hand in an attempt to hide and dampen the knight’s reprimanding. Or at least preserve whatever dignity he had left as he absorbed a blaze of dracarys at point blank. 

Lord Varys seemed to have the same idea, she noted. The only part of his body facing the pair was the back of his bald head. Vainly attempting to ignore the scuffle behind him by handing his bloodied-nose friend a cloth, whispering things that most likely rubbed salt on the wound to the little lord.

Dragonfire at that point would have been more merciful for Ser Jorah.

From the time she’d spent with him, she’d known he was the opposite. Calm and observant, exuding every ounce of gallantry very few knights of westeros held. Only threats towards his queen would ever incur his fury, and even then, his sword did what words could not.

Seldom did he ever lose his temper, even if he barely tolerated people like Lord Tyrion. He was the ice that contrasted the queen’s fire and tempered her fury when required.

It was why his sudden, physical outburst against the queen’s Hand startled her. 

Years spent in the harshest conditions kept her wits about and honed. It didn’t take long for Missandei to perceive what might have transpired between the two men.

But it would be another week of meetings and duty as the queen’s handmaiden before time offered her a scrap of freedom.

The creak of wooden doors announced her presence, the slight chill from the open window wafting against her cheeks. The last lingering remnants of winter vacated the night sky, allowing Winterfell to behold the full radiance of the moon. 

Jorah was seated in a chair by the window, whetstone and dagger in hand. Shadows cast over his lithe frame, strengthened by the fire in the hearth. His edges softened by the moon’s gentle beam. 

“Missandei,” he acknowledged, pausing his ministrations.

She stood a respectful distance away, hands clasped beneath her bosom. 

“Forgive me, Ser Jorah. If this is a bad time…”

“No, not at all. Is the queen alright?” He moved to stand, slow and gingerly.

She smiled. The queen, first and foremost. She expected nothing less from him.

Missandei was beside him within a moment, a hand on his shoulder gently urging him to sit. 

“At ease, Ser. Queen Daenerys is fine. She’s with the others and Jon Snow.” 

The mention of the latter’s name provoked a slight tick in his jaw, but he simply nodded and seated himself.

“May I?” She gestured towards an empty chair.

“Of course.”

She moved the chair so that they were across from each other and sat. Both forms framing the window that looked down to the yard. 

They basked in a comfortable silence for a few moments, watching the activity below. The soft laughter of rebelling children still out and about. Bustling of men and women changing shifts to tend to the castle’s needs filling the lull.

She glanced over to the man across from her.

Even without words or actions, Ser Jorah emanated comfort and protection by just being. Any friend of the queen was graced with his loyalty by extension. He was a man of the people, someone commoners and alike flocked to with little convincing. Someone who never placed himself above anyone else. The picturesque image of what a knight of the seven kingdoms should be. No other man was more fitted to be the queen’s second-in-command. 

No other man was more fitted to be the claimant of the queen’s affections.

He was the easiest to seek companionship with. One of the safest she felt with, and there was only one other man who could claim that. 

“How are your injuries?” she asked, breaking the silence. 

“A dull ache,” he replied, his eyes fixated on the men hoisting wood onto their shoulders. “Nothing more.”

“You must be restless.”

“I’ve been cooped up in here for weeks and Her Grace has forbade me from leaving unless it’s for a piss.”

“She hasn’t deprived you of opening a window, at least.”

“Insanity would have been my true demise if that were the case.”

She chuckled. “You did not yield to the dead, but it seems like your recovery will be your undoing.”

“The dead weren’t under the threat of having their wounds cauterized by a dragon.”

“A jest no doubt, but you know she only worries for you.”

She doesn’t miss the subtle movement of his eyes softening.

“There are more pressing matters that should occupy her thoughts,” he whispered a moment later, letting his head rest against the window frame. 

“That will not do, Ser,” she corrected softly. “With respect, I cannot have you undermine your importance to her. Especially in her absence.”

He eyed her acutely before huffing a low chuckle. A foreign sound only a handful of people were allowed to hear.

“I remember long ago you would not even speak to me, understandably so. Men were not kind to you,” he reminisced. “Now you are scolding me. Being around her seems to have awakened a dragon of your own.”

“You were the last I spoke to, but you were the first to show me kindness still lingered within men. That is not something I can simply forget.” She smiled. “I will not stand by and let the man who restored my hope bury his worth.”

“You give me too much credit,” he sighed, tearing his gaze away. 

“You give yourself too little.”

His shoulders sagged in resignation and he doesn’t say any more, allowing a lull to pass over them. 

He was an earnest man. A good man. One the seven kingdoms didn’t deserve. She didn’t know his past well, but his transgressions were practically carved in his face. Experience had done a number on him, and she could tell the sting of his betrayal was slow to mollify.

Gone was the man who always stood tall besides his queen in Yunkai and Mereen. What replaced him after his return to Dragonstone was but a shell of that. He still stood strong for his queen, but less taller. There was a faint hunch in his posture, weighed down by battle and sickness. Broken by layers of heartache from watching the queen grant her heart to men who were not him.

He was someone who held the past and his mistakes close to his chest. Someone who sought redemption more voraciously than any sane man, but was too humbled to accept forgiveness. Even if it was offered to him on a silver platter. 

It saddened her deeply knowing what he imposed on himself.

“I’m sure you’re not here just to chastise me,” he reminded her gently, breaking her rumination. 

He’s right. There was another reason why she was here. 

“I believe that depends on you, my friend.”

He turned his gaze to her then, brows furrowed in confusion.

“We have known each other for awhile now. Forgive me if I am wrong, but I know that you would never let what little tolerance you have for Lord Tyrion cloud your respect for his mind and position.”

She noticed his lips part, but words escaped him, so she continues.

“I heard there was wine involved, so I am aware he may have said things that were...inappropriate.”

He swallowed thickly, and she doesn’t miss the way his eyes become glossy when he stares down at his hands. 

But It’s too late. 

Ser Jorah’s eyes always gave him away. 

Whatever thought that had crossed him from his scuffle with the imp had already been displayed for her.

Her intuition closes in on it then. What might of slipped from Lord Tyrion’s loosened tongue. She waits though, letting the man before her take the reigns at his own discretion. 

He leans heavily against the window frame, his elbow coming to rest on the ledge while his distant gaze reaches the quieting activity below. She doesn’t avert her eyes, watching the conflict dance across his worn features. 

“Are you going to tell me she’s in love with me too?” His voice barely above a whisper, husky from emotion.

His words don’t catch her off guard. He’s a Mormont, he doesn’t beat around the bush and she Missandei of N’aath, who’s perception was sharper than any valyrian blade.

She grieves at the lack of conviction in his voice, heart clenching. Without asking, she knew this was but the consequence of a poisonous constant in his life. Loving too hard only to have heartbreak reciprocate. 

“The only person who has the right to tell you that is the Khaleesi herself.”

A demeaning laugh passes his lips.

“You speak as if she does.”

“And _if_ she does?”

He shifts in his seat and oesn’t respond, but he doesn’t articulate his denial either.

He had taught her kindness. He had taught Grey Worm ‘precious’ in the common tongue. An affectionate word that ignited the spark between them and brought more value to their practices. A spark that was kindled by more lessons and stolen moments until it burst into flames of passion. 

Love.

No matter how small, Ser Jorah had a role in bringing her to the one she loved most.

No matter how small, Missandei felt it necessary to do the same for him.

“She wept for you.”

“I know. The day I roused, we...talked.”

“I know.”

He lifted his head to meet her gaze, puzzled.

“I urged her to speak with you. She had been hurting since our victory and I could not just stand aside and watch.”

“...Hurting?” His voice betrayed his emotions.

“You nearly died in her arms. And when it came time to celebrate our victory and sacrifices, the northmen paid her no mind.”

“Jon Snow?” He growled.

“This land’s culture runs through his blood. I assume the incestuous nature behind their relationship might have damepened things between them.”

She watched a flurry of emotions flicker across his face. Hurt. Anger. Regret. He was going to shoulder everything like he always did.

But it was vital she capitalize on this raw moment.

“She went to you. Stayed by your side from dawn to dusk every day. I brought her meals, but she would barely touch them. Sleep beckoned her, but nightmares plagued her. So she cared for you in all of her waking hours. Maester Tarly was even certain she was the one keeping the fever and infection at bay. It was only when I pried her from your side that she let herself rest. For you.”

He was quiet when he turned away, glancing at the now barren yard below them. She watched the thickness gather in his throat, the way his eyes glossed over, the tightening of his jaw. 

Actions that spoke for him and displayed the battle raging within himself. 

“The queen loves and cares for her people,” he said quietly, but Missandei knew his words were but a farce as it lacked conviction. Spoken out of routine rather than feeling, underlining the conflict between a false sense of hope and the small piece of him that still yearned.

“What of the woman behind the queen then? The one who stayed by your side those many nights?”

Jorah shakes his head, a shaky breath leaving his chest. 

“If I had known I would cause her so much grief,” he whispered beats later. “I would have just stayed away.”

It felt like a hundred needles sprung from the corners of her heart, but she had to remain strong for her friend. 

She reached for his hand at the ledge, a movement he reciprocated.

“She did not shed any tears when we left Daario Naharis behind in Mereen. When Jon Snow’s love for her wavered, she hurt but did not weep. When she revealed Jon’s lineage at the meeting, I saw more her more relieved than she’d ever been since the long night.”

She offered him a sad smile. “And now that you’re alive and on the mend, she’s been happier. You’ve seen it yourself. She graces no one but you with smiles so radiant and looks at you as though you were too good to be real.”

A degree of wistfulness emerged from his emotional hues that would otherwise be easily missed. The corner of his lips tugged upward, if only briefly. A slight movement that emanated more love than any traditional bedding.

Perhaps he had conjured an image of the many smiles the queen had shared with him since he awoke. 

With that notion, she pressed forward, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

His cloudy eyes lift to meet hers. His lips part, but he hesitates. Courage slips from him and he averts his eyes to his hands instead. His throat bobs as he swallows thickly, unable to hold her gaze for what passes his lips next

“I love her,” he breathes. “To be the recipient of her affections brings me more joy than any I’ve known in all my years in this world.”

“But I am her knight. My life is not guaranteed. I told her I would endeavor against whatever that tried to rip me from her side, but no more. Knowing my fate, even if it was altered and I drew my last breath that night, I would do it all over again for her.”

His devotion and love for her friend was a testament to how good of a man he was. It never failed to amaze her.

“She deserves a suitor with a promised tomorrow. One she could die happily with at old age. A _King_. Her heart deserves to be free of grief and worry, not tied to a ball and chain.”

“Ser, you of all people should know what we deserve and what we want are not always the same,” she chided gently.

She deserved someone of equal measure, of high status, but that wasn't what she wanted. He deserved everything for all that he has given, yet he asks for nothing and yearns for only one.

“You should also know that our queen does not enjoy being told what can and cannot be hers.”

He chuckled at that. “No, she doesn’t.”

She smiled. Indeed, once Queen Daenerys had made up her mind, even the strength of ten mainlanders would struggle to deter her.

“You love her.”

He turned to her suddenly, without hesitation. “Until the end of days.”

“You would do anything for her.”

“I would do _anything_ for her,” he repeated with thrice the vigor.

“Then would you forgive her, Ser?”

He frowned, confused.

“She is no stranger to your feelings. None of us are.”

He blushed at that, briefly looking away.

“I have watched her give her heart to other men, but you...She always looked at you as though you had a place in her heart but didn’t know where. With Daario. Even with Jon. So please,” she gave his hand a squeeze. “Forgive her inexperience. Accept whatever may come.”

“There’s...nothing to forgive. She owes me nothing,” he said, reflexively.

She offered him a sad smile. “You know that’s not true, Ser.”

“I have little experience in Westerosi politics,” she continued, placing her other hand atop his, “but I understand status takes precedence over all and even the truest form of love has no place in it. What I do know is that she has broken the wheel that has spun over Slaver’s Bay for centuries as the queen. She does not intend to stop in Westeros even if she must break it simply as Daenerys, and I believe in all of her. Do you?”

She sees it then, his eyes speaking the words his lips protested against. 

_With all my heart._

Jorah breathed deeply, his eyes flickering between hers as if pleading for a lie, mouth parted to argue purely from second nature. Words left him, but he offered her a knowing look, conflict still battling behind his blue eyes at the indication of her words.

It was one of acknowledgement. One built not on the promise of success but effort. It would not be easy for him, she knew. Ser Jorah was forged by his past and weighed down by his mistakes. It was a conflict she knew he had to settle on his own.

She had confidence in the foundation she had set for him and her dearest friend. If there was anyone who could instill the necessary strength to move forward in either of them, it was within each other’s arms.

She glanced down at the empty yard. Only a slight chill and gentle crack from the hearth accompanied their lull.

Missandei stood, facing him. “I apologize, it’s quite late.”

“There's no need,” he replied, standing with her.

She smiled. “Thank you for letting me stay.”

“You’re the one I should be thanking.”

She moves to embrace him with reverence, arms gently wrapping around his shoulders. He’s taken aback by the movement for a moment, but eventually requites. A hand softly taking residence on her back as they relish the companionable silence.

“You’re one of the things that brought me and Grey Worm together,” she said, pulling away moments later. “It’s only fair I return the favor.”

He wants to say something, but closes his mouth as if he knew what her response would be. An earnest smile takes place instead.

“Rest well, Ser Jorah,” she bids with a slight bow. 

“You as well.”

She moves to leave, hand pausing on the door. 

“One more thing.”

He tilts his head to the side.

“Please remember to close the window before you turn in for the night. It’ll be on your head if the Daenerys finds out you caught a cold while still on the mend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> StormbornDaenerys[3]:<s>Diabetus</s>Neckerchief


	3. StormbornDaenerys[3]:Neckerchief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still salty over the false power outage alarm. Thanks California's only electricity provider. Y'all are great - No one. :|
> 
> Salt aside, thank you so much for your warm responses to the squishiest friendship known to the seven kingdoms. Your comments/kudos/ao3'ness never fails to clear my pores and fill my bank account. I appreciate every single one of you. I've got heart eyes for days. <3 <s>especially you fanoftheknight, may or may not have a writer's crush on you too WOOPS <3 dont tell anyone tho ;'DDD</s>
> 
> Topping it all off with some Jorleesi diabetus and fluffiness. Thank you for sticking around for this short multi thingamajig. Enjoy!

Her army will never be the same again.

Gone were the majority of her Khalasar, bickering over women, food, drink, and other reasons to fulfill their primal urges. Their rallying cries and rambunctious quarrels were but a distant memory that came and went like the chill winds.

Only a handful remained, but even then their clamorous jeers had been tempered by loss. 

Grey Worm survived, much to her and Missandei’s relief, but there were only about fifteen-hundred of his brothers left. 

Love humanized him, reminded him that he and the rest of the Unsullied bled like all living creatures. Loss made him feel the weight of every commander’s burden.

They had survived, however. Daenerys Stormborn had survived. The people that gave her strength, her pillars had survived.

As long as she still lived with her foundation still whole, she will always rebuild with thrice the strength and wisdom. 

It was evident from how smoothly their plans were flowing.

Daenerys and Jon had managed to rally the north to repay the sacrifices she had given to fight their war. Not out of love, but largely out of loyalty to Jon and a level of begrudging respect.

A raven had flown in from Dorne days before, securing her an army and fleet under the promise of Ellaria Sand’s safe return.

Recently, she had sent a raven for the Second Sons in Mereen. No matter how brief their passionate retreats were, she had secured his oath by searing her love onto every part of his skin. Daario Naharis would no doubt answer the call from the queen he swore his life and heart to. 

Her heart belonged to no one. It was hers to give, no one’s to take. When she needed an army or an alliance, she gave and was given in return. Even when she thought love to be hidden underneath the political underbelly, it never turned out to be as true as she thought.

What was truly hidden without her knowledge nor consent, was something the long night had nearly stripped her of after it had furtively rooted itself in her heart.

It was why knowing _he came back_ made her heart quiver under the gravity of her blossoming affections.

They were to depart for Braavos today on the way back to Dragonstone, and she was eager to visit the place she once called home. Moreso return to the familiarity of her ancestral grounds.

They would be going back. _Together._

She coveted Jorah’s presence and was more eager to see how well he was recovering. Nightly visits became a habit ever since he first roused, and it was an elated feeling that she never grew tired of. 

She opened the door to his chambers, excitement clouding all civilities including knocking.

He was only in his breeches and protective skirt.

Struggling with the shirt over his head.

The sun gleaming from the window did her no favors by accentuating the muscled patches not hidden by his bandages.

But before she could move or say anything-

“Khaleesi!”

He turned quickly.

Too quickly.

His wounds gave way. 

Or at least, it sounded like they did.

The groan evoked from his wince tore her from her spot. 

She was by him in an instant.

“Here, stop. Let me.” She moved to grab the hem of his shirt.

“You...don’t have to,” he stammered. “I can-”

“No, you can’t.” He didn’t fight her.

Daenerys gently pulled his shirt over his body after making sure none of his injuries reopened. The soft brush of her thumbs against the open patch of skin by his hips prickled her body with a feeling she quickly tempered.

Under different circumstances, glimpses of his musculature were invitations for her desire and would taunt the tips of her fingers.

Luckily, his state of being kept her rooted to the reality of the situation.

“Thank you, Khaleesi. Had I known you would visit, I would have made myself more...presentable.”

She’d seen him before. When she helped the maester change his bandages while he still fought against the darkness. 

But he doesn’t know that. At least, not yet.

Only when she looked up at the bob of his throat did she realize her hands were still on his hips. His height was much more profound at this distance and their chests were mere centimeters apart. 

_You look presentable regardless._

She pulled the reins on her thoughts before they developed a voice of their own.

Daeenerys chuckled while stepping away in an attempt to relinquish the brief spark between them, but the kindle of words escaped before she could stop them.

“Fret not, Ser. You look stronger than before.”

It was true. He was still on the mend, but the color had returned to his skin. He looked _alive_ and well. 

“All thanks to Maester Tarly...and you.” 

She didn’t miss the soft upturn of his lips following his words, the way his eyes scanned her features with such adoration as he breathed the latter. A sight she would never grow tired of seeing. Only she would ever be privileged with such affection without being asked for anything in return.

It was why her heart also simmered in anguish knowing she’d broken her heart all those times before.

The rawness of it all had her blushing, suddenly more conscious of gentle woman he spoke so highly of many years ago.

“I would have done anything to save you,” her heart governing her words at its own volition. “I wasn’t going to lose you again, gods be damned.”

But she didn’t regret them. 

Knowing she played a part in his recovery lifted one of the many debts she owed him. One lifetime will never be enough. Two will never be enough. She owed him more. She always will. 

Her raw conviction affected him the most. His lips parted and what glazed over his blue eyes appeared to be the dawn of realization. Words would not come to him however, and she willed herself to save them from the spark-induced cloud that had hovered over them.

“The horses will disrupt your wounds.” She grabbed the black piece of cloth on the table beside them. “You will ride with me on the carriage.” 

He was resistant, as expected. “I can-”

She paused him with a raised hand. “Not only is that the maester’s orders, it is _mine_ as well.”

He said nothing and simply bowed his head.

“Jon will scout ahead for Euron’s fleet on Rhaegal. The Prince of Dorne and his army will rendezvous with us at Dragonstone within a few fortnights.”

“The Prince himself is coming?”

“I promised to return his sister, but he was insistent.”

“Hellbent on revenge rather than securing your word no doubt. Cersei Lannister is the reason why his brother and heirs are dead. Sister imprisoned like livestock.”

“So it seems. I’ve also sent word to Daario Naharis.”

She saw him visibly stiffen at the name. 

“...The Second Sons.”

“My army is not the same as before. We need _all_ the help we can get,” she said, hoping to ease the tension that was swallowing the affection from before.

“I understand, but what if he does not answer the call?”

She understood his wariness. She’d seen it before. It didn’t stem from just his doubts, but the jealousy that was always present no matter how strong his honor restrained it. 

“He will.”

“_If_ he doesn’t?”

“He _will_ because he believes in me and...loves me,” she said, her intonation indifferent.

She hoped he would pick up on her detached feelings for man she held close strictly for political fortitude. 

But he stepped back, and the distance between them was suddenly too large for her liking.

He looked like the man before the long night with hands clasped in front of him, head bowed. As if he was relapsing to protect himself from the repudiation pattern she had subjected him to years before. The same man she had broken time and time again. 

“...Yes, Your Grace. I was being too cautious. Forgive me for doubting. ”

_Your Grace._ The formality played at the strings tying her heart, even in the husky timbre she was ever so fond of. It added salt to a wound that she had caused for herself and him. 

_Khaleesi._ She thought. _It sounds better when it’s you._

She didn’t want him to hurt anymore. A large part of her wanted to tell him. The selfish part of her _wanted_ all of him, right then and there. The better of her knew it would be wrong to capitalize on such a palpable moment.

_Not now._ She steeled herself, shutting her eyes. _I must endure. You must endure. Please, my bear. Just a bit more._

She swallowed thickly, glancing down at the neckerchief in her hands. It matched his dark attire well, but her mind conjured the image of the cerulean piece he’d worn in Qarth. 

“I remember the blue one you had when we were in Qarth.” She smiled fondly, eyes still glossy from emotion. 

Daenerys stepped forward, hesitating. Waiting to see if he would step back. Waiting to see if he would reject. Waiting to see if he would allow her to close the distance this time.

Instead, his brows scrunched in confusion. “You...remember that?”

She shook her head, taking more steps forward after knowing he wouldn’t back away and whispered, “I could never forget.”

The distance between them grew smaller until his height was more prominent again. “When Drogon and I surfaced the clouds for the first time, I saw it then. The sky and the sun.” She reached up and began coiling the material around his neck. His breath hitched as her fingers caressed the nape of his neck and tickled his little curls. 

“I have seen it many times but breaking through the womb of the sky felt like I was seeing it all over again. Except it was closer. Bluer than Summer Sea. The sun, warmer and brighter than Essos could ever behold. _Closer._”

She began knotting the fabric, her eyes fluctuating between his parted lips and handsome features. Her words breathed and mingled with his in unison, but his hands remain fisted at his side. “I felt like everything was within my reach. The sun. The clouds beneath. The mysteries beyond the universe we live in. I felt _free._ Free from the game of thrones, from the poison that blots this earth, from my duty as the queen to my people. It was the happiest I’ve felt in _years._”

She tightened the knot. Her hands finally free, one snaked its way to his cheek while the other played at the soft locks at his neck. 

“That’s why I could never forget,” she breathed, her eyes gleaming from unshed tears as they darted between his blue depths. Her thumb stroking the bone underneath his lower eyelid. “I look at you and I remember.”

She looks and she remembers. How well it paired with his golden shirt and accentuated his eyes. How handsome he looked as the sun highlighted his blond locks and brought warmth to his blue hues. 

It was him she saw beyond the thick grey.

And in that moment, she felt like she was emerging from her cloudy prison again. Her duty, the promise she made to herself not to answer his love too soon earlier, forgotten. Dulled by the affections pouring from her heart, much too eager from being dormant for so long.

His heavy breath wafted against her cheeks, their hearts beating as one against their pressed bodies, his eyes heavy with an undetermined emotion. Her fingernails traced against his strong stubble. The natural pull, the doing of perhaps the universes beyond the skies she’s flown, tightened the distance between them. His natural, woodsy scent filled her nostrils and further enticed her lips to his. Their noses affectionately slid against each other as they were a breath away from-

Two knocks. 

Two knocks broke the spell the universes cast upon them.

“We are ready to depart, Ser Jorah...Forgive me, Your Grace.”

She blushed.

Missandei. She loved her friend dearly. 

But she would have a word with the handmaiden later, especially with the subtle tease that followed her formal title. 

Daenerys waited until the footsteps furthered themselves.

Breaths later, she tilted her head to the side and pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth before stepping away. She chuckled at his dazed features and his hum of disappointment at the distance. 

“It’s a long journey to Braavos. We have all the time to talk, Jorah.”

“Bra-” He cleared his throat. “Braavos?”

“I have business with the Iron Bank and a few suppliers there that will help us get back on our feet.”

“Right,” he replied, but it was void of any acknowledgement. It seemed like he was still reeling in from the storm they had created together.

It was boyish almost. _Endearing._ The very man with the strength of ten mainlanders who had fought off every single weight that threatened her. 

She giggled, a feather-weight emotion lifting her heart. “I’ll have to get you another neckpiece of the same color as before when we arrive. Or at least something similar.”

“T-There’s no need for that, Khaleesi,” he said gently.

“You’re right. There’s no need because I want to. It’s quite a handsome color on you, Ser.”

His ears flushed. “You are too kind.” 

Smiling, she moved to fetch his armor but paused once he saw the valyrian blade. 

Heartsbane. 

The memories of him, quaking harder and harder every time he stood from the seemingly endless blades he took for her, threatened to flood her. 

She pushed them back. This sword was more than that. 

He protected her with it. Served her with it. Killed for her with it. A testament of his loyalty. A symbol of his redemption. The forgiveness he deserved. 

She scooped Heartsbane into her arms. 

_It’s heavier than it looks,_ she thought. Jorah’s strength was truly admirable, very much a man from Bear Island. He swung it as if it were any other sword with only one arm. 

She brought it to him and when she glanced up, Daenerys saw the mutual emotions dancing across his eyes. He placed his hands on top of her grip, but she didn’t move to let go. 

Her lips quirked into a smile that reached her eyes, his lips curving at their own volition from her infectious mirth.

Heartsbane protected her from demons that threatened her existence and severed the strings that imprisoned her dormant fears and affections.

It was his to wield until his last days, a symbol of what they had endured and survived.

“I will see you by the gate, my bear.” She slipped from the warmth of his hands. 

What _he_ had endured. Her second chance. 

“Of course, Khaleesi.”

The beginning she should have taken years before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Until the next one. Much love! <3


End file.
